


i might not say it back

by sleeponrooftops



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel
Genre: Cheating, Depression, Explicit Language, M/M, SPOILER THE RELATIONSHIP IS NOT THE FOCUS, Sexual Content, Violent Sex, alcoholic super soldier so never actually drunk, exercise anorexia, guys the relationship is not the focus NOT THE FOCUS, rage issues, the relationship is not the focus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:33:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeponrooftops/pseuds/sleeponrooftops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He spends all night trying to run from what’s coming, but, in the end, it hits him like a sucker punch, and he’s still gasping for breath when it all settles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i might not say it back

**Author's Note:**

> Notes —
> 
> i. ERIN.
> 
> ii. Dear god, this fic. So, while writing this, Erin was pouting and whining, so I said, “This fic is so upsetting because this is not the Steve Rogers we’ve come to know and love, but the Steve Rogers we pretend doesn’t exist.” Steve is not perfect, and there’s no way he’d be that well-adjusted after waking up seventy years in the future, and I just keep thinking about that [deleted scene](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oulqXofUTms) from _The Avengers_ , so this is the result. This hurts, probably more than that Tony angst fic I did recently. You’ve been warned.

_Please don’t say you love me,_

The average person can go eleven days without sleep before they die.

 

Steve was never average, even before the serum.  He was too small, bones peeking out, desperate to escape from the diseased body they were trapped in, to be anywhere else but right here, and every time Bucky stood too close, it felt like they were trying to leap out of him and scatter toward the strong, the healthy, the _worthy_.  He’d been so desperate to make his parents proud, to stamp out all evidence of the illnesses that wracked him and to go to war as they had, to defend his country, to fight for it, to be the man he needed to prove he could be.  The serum was a gift, but now, in a world he doesn’t understand, fighting a war against an evil he cannot fathom, _with_ a team that harbors so many dark secrets it threatens to break them at any moment, it is something that kept him alive, his heart thudding so slow that it hurt the first few times he was aware of it again, so fast.  This gift that allowed him to be a man has given him life again, and he has no idea why.

 

He tells them that they are to fight for the freedom of the Earth, that they are its protectors, but he doesn’t recognize the world he lives in now, doesn’t recognize the freedom he is fighting for, cannot even call them his team because the word establishes unity, and they have anything but.  They are stumbling, lost souls trying to come together for some higher purpose, but, where they can gain their footing, can ground themselves in each other, in solid thoughts and memories, in reality, Steve is still wondering if he should try to find Peggy or not.

 

This is how it goes.  Every time he thinks of Peggy, he goes to the gym.

 

Oftentimes, he stays overnight, works into the morning, and then greets the sun with a slow jog around Brooklyn, still trying to reacquaint himself with his old home.  He passes by his parents’ house, and sometimes, when his head is too full, when things pass by in a blur, when he hasn’t slept in so long that his bones start to ache, he starts to turn up their stairs, starts to knock, and then he remembers.

 

He has gone twenty days without sleep before he starts shaking, and it’s only through power of will that he finally falls into slumber, resentfully surrenders to the nightmares that will not let him wake, that hold him under until he comes gasping to the surface, drenched in a cold sweat and clawing out of the tangle of blankets.

 

It always ends the same, that last moment, the static before the ice caved in around him.

 

It was manageable until he met Tony Stark, and then it was just another reminder that everyone he’d ever loved was gone—they’d lived and laughed and continued on without him, all while he was under the ice, and when he’d surfaced, not a single trace remained until a metal man dropped out of the sky.  Later, when Tony let the mask slide back, Steve doesn’t know how he was able to listen, to interact—all he could comprehend was that Tony was Howard’s son, and he latched onto him, doing everything in his power to gain Tony’s favor, to understand him and learn to _be_ with him until Tony was opening up to him.

 

Three months after the Chitauri was the first time they fell into bed, the first time Steve learned to banish it all in something carnal, something mindless that he could forget later, something that would make him forget _now_.

 

When he thinks of Howard, he stops sleeping.  Around day five, he goes to see Tony, and he usually hangs around until he starts thinking of Bucky, which usually only takes a couple days, and, by the time he gets home and spends a night wandering the dark streets, he thinks of Peggy, and then he’s back at the gym, a vicious cycle that repeats and repeats and repeats.

 

Steve breaks up his work outs with walks, until he keeps going past his parents’ house, past the apartment he and Bucky shared, past the shop that hid Erskine’s death, and he keeps walking until he’s not in Brooklyn anymore.  Sometimes, he passes the nights in different parks, sketching under the dull light of a street lamp, and though he doesn’t eat much anymore, he eats enough to stay in shape, and so he visits every small café that interests him until people start to recognize him as a regular, and then he moves on.

 

Sometimes, his systems don’t work, and Steve drinks until he’s sure an average man would have slumped over, slipped right under and never woken up, but Steve has never been average.

 

——

 

A year after the Chitauri, it’s not as bad as it was.

 

Steve learns how to be a little more open with Tony, learns the give and take of dating _Iron Man_ , learns how to balance it all until he knows who he needs to be when he’s at the Tower.  It’s been a rough week, and so he’s been at Tony’s for a while, enough that his toothbrush is sitting next to his, that he’s in the kitchen cooking breakfast.

 

It’s nice, though, being this close to someone else, falling asleep with Tony warm beside him.  He enjoys the down time, too, when Tony’s in the lab with Bruce.  When he’s not catching up on whatever book he’s reading at the time or watching them tinker about, he’s downstairs because Tony’s gym is far nicer than the public one, and he loves to make use of it whenever he can.

 

“Hey,” Tony says, coming up behind him and curling his arms around his waist.  He leans up, pressing a kiss to the back of Steve’s neck, who withholds the shiver and allows Tony a few moments before he carefully steps out of his embrace.  He feigns going into the fridge and only returns to his eggs when Tony has taken a seat at the island.  “What’s for breakfast?” he asks, reaching for the newspaper.

 

“Something simple,” Steve says softly as he finishes up and divvies out the eggs onto two plates.  He hands one over, complete with toast, hash browns, and sausage, to which Tony hums happily, tugging his plate toward him.  Steve gets them drinks, sits diagonal from Tony, and holds out a hand.  Tony hands over the news, keeping the funnies for himself, and they eat breakfast in a comfortable quiet.

 

“You hanging around today?” Tony asks as he’s dumping his plate in the sink.

 

“Yeah, if that’s okay,” Steve says, turning on the water.

 

Tony lingers, leaning against the counter, looking up at Steve, though he frowns when Steve doesn’t return his gaze.  “Of course,” he says before heading out, and Steve waits for him to go before he lets out a heavy breath, focusing on the dishes.

 

Once they’re clean, he goes downstairs, avoiding the lab, and he makes for the pool first, stretching before he disrobes entirely because he knows he won’t be disturbed.

 

Steve does laps, switching strokes every tenth lap, until there’s an ache in his shoulders, and then he pushes harder, kicking faster until he’s struggling to lift himself out of the pool, his body shaking.  He stumbles into the bathroom and falls into the shower, sagging against the wall.  It’s a while before he can manage to get his feet right, but then he’s taking a few deep breaths, finding a water, and dressing again before he heads out into the gym.  He devotes an hour to yoga, then moves onto lifting weights, and then spends an hour running, and, by the time he’s finished up, it’s noon, and he’s having trouble catching his breath.  He works through some cool down stretches, and then he just sits for a while, eyes closed and back straight, trying to will the black spots in his peripheral vision away.  When he feels a little better, Steve takes the elevator upstairs and passes out for a couple hours before he hears Tony bumbling around in the kitchen, and he knows he needs to leave.

 

Steve takes another quick shower, but when he pads back out into the room, Tony is there, sitting cross-legged on his bed, tapping away at a tablet absentmindedly.  “Bruce locked me out of the lab,” he mumbles, and Steve nods to himself because Tony’s not really paying attention.  He starts to dress, but then Tony continues, “He said I had to talk to you because your vitals were off earlier, and he was worried, but he’s too much of a pussy to do it himself, so.”

 

Steve goes still, not turning, but he doesn’t think Tony is looking at him, not from his bored tone, and so he takes a few deep breaths and looks over his shoulder.  Tony is still tapping at his tablet, and Steve knows this could go one of two ways.  He continues to pull his jeans on when Tony says, “So, the hell is going on with you?”

 

After a moment, Steve nods and turns, closing the distance between them, kissing Tony fiercely so he’ll be quiet, palming his crotch and leaning him back onto the bed.  He gives Tony the best blowjob he can manage in his current state, but Tony is loose and grinning when he comes off his high, reaching for Steve even as Steve pulls away.  He manages a small smile and kisses Tony lightly on the lips.  “Take a nap,” he says, keeping his voice soft, and Tony just hums and turns over.

 

When he’s sure he’s safe, Steve dresses and leaves.

 

——

 

A week later, Magento throws a hissy fit.

 

The night before, Steve has been on a sleepless binge of eight days, and the shakes have started early—his hands are too unsteady to lift weights, his knees keep giving out every time he tries to go for a walk, and he keeps having to stop to catch his breath, so he just goes up to the roof with a few bottles of whiskey and sits on the edge, watching over Brooklyn.

 

He brings a picture of Bucky up with him and puts it on the roof next to him, sitting one of the bottles down on a corner so it doesn’t blow away.  He leans over toward the picture, like he’s nudging the shoulder of a ghost, and says, “You’d love the future, man.  It’s a lot crazier than Howard ever said, but it’s what you two always dreamed about.  I met his son, Bucky—hell, I’m fuckin’ him.”

 

He straightens, going quiet as he takes a swig out of one of the bottles.  He stares out at the world around him, the bright lights that never sleep, and he thinks about waking up to that ball game, so unsure of everything simply because they’d gotten the game wrong.  It had been before the serum, before he hadn’t had a cause yet.  He’d gone with Bucky, sitting shoulder to shoulder, grinning like dorks, jostling each other back and forth excitedly.  Afterward, they’d gone out for a drink and then stayed up all night, sitting on the roof of their apartment building, just talking.

 

He remembers coming to a screeching halt outside, remembers the black cars surrounding him, remembers a man with an eye patch calling him _Cap_ and pretending he knew who he was.  He remembers the first time he met Tony Stark and almost called him Howard, a surging rush of relief that he’d swallowed down.

 

Steve chugs until it burns, and then he lets the bottle thunk against the roof as he gasps in the cool, night air.

 

He hasn’t been keeping up with his gym routine, not like he used to, and he thinks that’s why it’s so bad right now, why _he_ is so bad right now.

 

He hasn’t seen Tony in a week, and he thinks he misses him.

 

Steve drains the rest of the first bottle, sets it back down, and digs out his phone.  Tony’s an insomniac most often, and so he closes his eyes as it rings, smiles when he picks up, “Hey, Steve.  Tony’s—”

 

“Miss you,” Steve says softly, _fondly_ , and then his smile falls away as he opens his eyes and looks down at Bucky’s picture, “I miss you so goddamn much.”

 

“Steve?” Bruce says cautiously.

 

“I couldn’t save you, I couldn’t—I couldn’t fucking _save you_.”

 

“Jarvis, reroute to my phone, let Tony know I’ll be back later.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Steve whispers, closing his eyes and hanging up.

 

Bruce gets stuck in traffic because of a car pile-up, kudos to Magneto, and he calls Tony even as he’s pulling over and pushing out of the car.  “Where did you go?” Tony whines when he answers.

 

“Uh—out for a breather.  Listen, shit’s going down in Staten Island, I think.  Call the team, I’m in Brooklyn, so I’ll get Cap.  Looks like Magneto,” and then he hangs up, jogging the rest of the way to Steve’s apartment.  He lets himself in because they all have keys to each other’s places, just in case, and he hurries upstairs, swearing when he finds his apartment empty, but then he sees the open window.  He starts to head for it when he hears the fire escape stairs creaking, and he pauses, waiting.  A few moments later, Steve comes in through the window, looking a little tired, but otherwise okay.

 

“Bruce?” he says, frowning, “What are you doing here?”

 

“You—” Bruce stops, mirroring his frown before he picks his battle, “Magneto’s in Staten Island.”

 

It takes a moment, but Steve nods, disappearing around the corner.  He returns a few minutes later in his suit, and they head out, and Bruce tries twice to bring it up as they’re going back downstairs, but stops each time, unsure.

 

Everything turns out alright, though.  Steve is a little sluggish, but Bruce chalks that up to lack of sleep, and they detain Magneto with no real difficulty, so he ignores it.

 

When Steve gets back to his apartment, bruised and aching and _exhausted_ , he nurses the second bottle of whiskey until he passes out, and then he sleeps for three days.

 

——

 

Sometimes, he feels claustrophobic.

 

Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, but when he’s too exhausted to go down the street to the gym, when he’s so tired that he can barely sit up, Steve lets his mind wander, lets it slip to Peggy, lets it settle there until he lets his eyes slip shut, head turned to the side.  Sometimes, he feels her next to him, lying in the crook of his arm, a soft smile on her lips, her head tilted up toward him, her eyes bright.

 

“Steve,” she whispers, looking down to where her finger is tracing patterns on his cotton chest, “We should go dancing tomorrow night.”

 

“You’ll have to teach me,” he says, and she always laughs and pushes against his chest until she can kiss him before she slips out of bed.  She flits in and out, coming and going as she pleases, rambling about nothing as Steve watches her.  She gives him the strength to find his sketchpad and sit, back against the headboard, his fingers moving slowly as he lets her slowly fade from hallucination to black ink.  He hates finishing the drawings because she’s always gone when he finishes the last bit of shading and looks up, the room empty around him, void of her warm presence.  Sometimes, though, he waits, lets her linger around him, waits until she curls up next to him and presses against his side.

 

“I miss you,” she whispers, and that’s when he lets her go.

 

Tonight, though, he sketches her in that red dress, head tipped back in a laugh, one hand in Steve’s, the other on his shoulder as he leads her around the small dance floor, beaming down at her.  He smiles, expanding the scene until he’s rounding out Bucky’s broad shoulders at the bar, flirting with some nameless blonde even as Howard settles on her other side, winking at Bucky, one thumb hooked in the bottom of his suspenders.

 

As the sun starts to rise, Steve carefully finishes and then shifts until he’s lying, letting sleep take him.

 

——

 

The first Thursday every month is team night, and they all get together, no matter what shit has been going on between them lately, and they go out to dinner.  Thor only remembers half the time, but he shows up tonight, wearing the suit Tony bought him and looking damn proud that he remembered to do so, as well.  They go out for Italian, somewhere nice so that the boys can dress up, though Natasha puts them all to shame in her slim emerald dress.

 

People have started to recognize them because of these outings, which they all blame Tony for, and so they manage to get a table out of the way where they can freely laugh and catch up.  Thor regales them with a thrilling tale on what’s happened recently in Asgard, Natasha tries to calmly tell them about the new gear she’s gotten and ends up getting overexcited and pulling up pictures on her phone, and then she ropes Clint into showing them his new arrows and the bow he’s been designing.  Tony and Bruce keep quiet on their science but to give some small details, not wanting to bore, and Steve just takes it all in, allowing himself to relax and smile.

 

They spend a few hours at the restaurant until Thor demands they go out and find somewhere to have a rematch drinking contest between he and Steve, who nods and laughs, straightening.  After they settle the bill, they don jackets and head outside, and Steve lingers a little by the door, hoping Tony will, as well.

 

Bruce notices, and steps off to the side, asking Thor about Jane, and, when Tony steps out last, he looks over at Steve in surprise.

 

“Hey,” Steve says softly.

 

“Hey yourself,” Tony says, ducking his hands in his pockets and heading off after the others.

 

Steve hurries to catch up, quiet for a while until he sighs, “Tony, I’m—”

 

“Don’t say sorry, okay?  There’s nothing to apologize for.”

 

“Tony, it’s been nearly a month since I last saw you, I—”

 

“Look, Cap, I’m a casual kind of man.”  He flashes Steve a glance that lets him know he doesn’t want to be, not with him.  “You wanna fuck off for a few weeks, you go right ahead.  Just don’t expect any commitment on my end.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“Listen,” Tony says, stopping abruptly.  Steve stops, as well, turning, his frown deepening as Tony shakes his head and looks away.  It take a few moments, but then he looks back and says, very quickly, “This is new territory for me.  I don’t—I don’t do this shit,” he says, motioning between them, “I thought—” he pauses, looking down at his feet, “I thought you were different.”

 

He lets that settle before he walks away, and Steve watches him go.  He has half a mind to hail a cab and go back to his apartment, but instead, he squares his shoulders and takes long strides, closing the distance between them.  When he reaches Tony, he plucks his hand out of his pocket and winds their fingers together, squeezing his hand lightly.  Tony looks away when he smiles.

 

They have a roaring time at the bar, all crammed into a circle booth together, Steve and Thor drinking easily and quickly, Tony slowly working his way through some _very_ expensive vodka, Bruce nursing a pint, and Clint teasing Natasha into doing shots with him.

 

Tony slips past sad drunk so fast Steve barely notices it, but there’s a split second of pain that flashes across his face that makes Steve wonder, and then he’s loose and relaxed, leaning against Steve and laughing at pretty much anything.  Steve keeps going until he’s starting to ache, his fingers trembling, and then he eases off, but he doesn’t miss the furrowed brow Bruce keeps giving him.

 

When they finally stumble out into the night, it’s about three in the morning, and Tony is yawning adorably, snugged up under Steve’s arm.  “Are you coming over?” he asks, rubbing at his eye with a fist.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says almost immediately, nodding and leaning down to press a kiss to Tony’s head, “Yeah.”  And so, they hail a cab, climbing in with Bruce, and they head back to the Tower, Tony dozing between them.

 

“Steve,” Bruce says when Tony’s snoring lightly, tucked up against Steve, “Is everything okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, not looking at him.

 

“Hey,” Bruce says when he doesn’t elaborate, and he waits for Steve to look over before he continues, “That night.”  When Steve just stares at him, Bruce sighs and says, “That night you called Tony, but got me, at the Tower.”

 

Steve shakes his head, frowning, “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” and he doesn’t.

 

“The night Magneto attacked Staten Island.  You really don’t remember?” he adds when Steve continues to look bewildered.

 

“No.”

 

Bruce sighs, nodding, “Okay.  Well, if you—if you ever need someone to talk to, I mean—Tony makes me sit through these ridiculous therapy sessions, even though I keep telling him I’m not a psychiatrist, but that doesn’t seem to stop him, so if you just need—I dunno, if you just need someone to listen, don’t be shy.”

 

Steve starts to attack, to shove Bruce away, wants to reel away from him and keep everything close, to scream at him for prying, and it terrifies him, this burst of anger that flares through him and threatens to destroy one of the only friends he has.  It takes effort, but he swallows it down, stamps it out, and nods slowly.  “Thank you,” he says instead, even though it physically hurts to accept his help.  He doesn’t know where this is coming from, this unbridled fury, but he’s feeling claustrophobic again suddenly, and he turns away from Bruce, closing his eyes.

 

When they get to the Tower, Steve can’t get out of the cab fast enough, and he gulps in the night air before reaching back in for Tony, easing him out of the cab and toward the Tower while Bruce pays with Tony’s money.  Tony stirs in the elevator, yawning and stretching, cat-like and heavy against Steve, but then he’s blinking awake at his floor and stretching his back until it cracks before he heads out, feet quick and limbs loose.

 

Steve follows him uncertainly, still thrumming with energy, and as Tony saunters, fucking _saunters_ , across the living room and down the hall toward his bedroom, Steve wants nothing more than to strip him naked and shove him down onto the bed.

 

When Tony disappears into the bedroom, Steve takes a steadying breath before he follows, and Tony is just standing there waiting, his fingers slowly undoing the buttons on his shirt.  “Come on, Rogers,” he says, his voice pitched low, and Steve grabs at him, yanking off their layers before he’s pushing Tony toward the bed and down onto it.

 

They haven’t had sex like this in a while, not since the beginning.  It’s fast and angry and rough, Tony on all fours as Steve fucks him, relentless, and Tony just arches his back and takes it.  Steve fists a hand in his hair, holding him there, and Tony comes untouched, Steve following a few minutes after.  The high is too quick, though, not enough, and Steve lies next to a trembling Tony, frowning.

 

“Steve,” Tony says, turning over, and then freezes at his expression.  “Was that—was that not good for you?” Tony asks, and he’s so out of his element here that it makes Steve’s frown deepen.

 

“No,” he says, flatly, and Tony stops breathing.  “Forget it,” he says, starting to rise, but Tony lets out his breath and grabs at him, hauling him back toward the bed and straddling him.

 

“Not on my watch,” he says, glaring at Steve.  He’s still a little breathless when he leans down to kiss him, and it’s like striking a match.  Steve kisses back fiercely, furiously, fingers digging into Tony as he presses them closer.

 

It takes some encouraging, and some time, before Tony is hard again, and then Steve is sinking into him and trying to take it slow, but something isn’t right, and his thrusts get a little quicker, a little harder, until Tony whines, reaching up a hand to press against his chest, but Steve keeps going until he says, fear creeping in at the edge of his voice, “Steve, stop.”

 

Steve grits his teeth, jaw tight as he forces himself to slow, rocking until he’s still, fully seated in Tony, who takes a moment to catch his breath, looking up at him.  “What’s wrong?” he says softly, and Steve shakes his head.  Tony holds his gaze for a moment before nodding toward the bed, “On your back.”

 

Steve obeys, rolling over effortlessly, and then Tony’s crawling between his legs, and though he has a wicked mouth, Steve can’t stop staring at the ceiling and counting in his head as Tony sucks at his cock.  And then Tony is slapping his stomach, an angry echo of skin that jerks his gaze down.  “You fucker, you think this is _boring_?”

 

Steve opens his mouth, but stops at Tony’s vicious glare.  “Give me the lube.”

 

“Tony.”

 

“ _Give it_ , asshole.”

 

Steve returns his glare before doing as he’s told, and then Tony’s giving his knee a soft slap before he returns his mouth to Steve’s dick, and Steve sighs, eyes flicking up a second before Tony’s index finger pushes inside him.  It’s not quite enough, but it stirs something in him that Steve thinks might be broken, and he shatters apart with a broken cry in the end, Tony’s fingers in his ass and mouth on his cock, and then, when he’s still coming down, Tony moves until he’s straddling Steve’s waist, and he jerks himself slow, gaze fixed on Steve’s.

 

His thighs are just tightening when he feels the curve of Steve’s dick against his ass, and he grins, though it looks a little feral and a little violent, and they fuck like that, Tony riding Steve, and then, finally, he feels like he might be able to sleep.

 

In the morning, the bed is cold next to him, but the shower is on, and he wakes slowly, sheets shifting around him as he stretches, letting the warm sunlight fall over him.  He dozes for a few minutes before getting out of bed and padding naked into the bathroom.  When he pulls back the glass door, Tony doesn’t move but to lift a hand in hello, and Steve frowns when he notices the ugly bruises on his hips, in the shapes of Steve’s hands.  “Tony,” he murmurs, fingers ghosting lightly over one hip, “I’m so sorry.”

 

Tony turns, shrugging.  “It’s fine,” he says, “I’ve had worse.”

 

It doesn’t make him feel better, but it makes him feel no worse, either, so Steve just kisses him softly and turns away to shower.

 

He tries to stay, tries to give Tony what he wants, tries to love him like he’s supposed to, but, in the end, it’s barely noon before he’s sneaking out.

 

——

 

Steve is on the bus, halfway home, when he realizes how shitty it was to just _leave_ after that, but it doesn’t dissuade him from getting off at his stop and going upstairs to his apartment.

 

He doesn’t know how to do this.  Seventy years was too long, and he doesn’t know how to live in this world.  When he looks in the mirror, sometimes, and thinks of his childhood, he’s reminded that he’s over ninety years old, and he always has to look away.  His reflection is a lie, a corruption of science, and he is nothing more than an experiment created from a test tube by the man who fathered his current— _thing_.  He doesn’t even know what to consider Tony, _how_ to consider Tony, but he knows that treating him the way he is just pushes him farther away from understanding.

 

And so, as soon as he gets inside, he digs out his phone and heads for his bedroom, pulling a duffel bag out from the closet.  Tony answers on the fourth ring, “What?”

 

“Don’t interrupt me, _please_.  I’m sorry.  I don’t know what’s going on with me, but I want to figure this out— _us_ , Tony.  I want to do this right, but I need you to know that I’m lost.  I can’t—I can’t get solid footing, and I’m just kind of stumbling through, and I need your help, I need—I need _you_.”

 

There’s silence on the other line, and Steve holds his breath, waiting, until he realizes Tony’s being smart with him, and he breaks off in a soft laugh and says, “You can speak.”

 

“Look at that, already catching on,” Tony teases, and Steve’s smile grows until he’s pausing in his packing, just staring across his room to the window, looking out at Brooklyn.  The quiet stretches, just the shared breaths between them, until Tony says, “Come home,” and hangs up.

 

Steve finishes packing—clothes, toothbrush, art supplies, a few books—and then heads out, taking his motorcycle.  When he gets to the Tower, he drops his bag up on Tony’s floor before going down to the lab, his sketchpad and a pencil in hand.  Tony is arguing back and forth with Jarvis, Bruce sometimes supplying something that makes Tony flail and mutter obscenely, but, when he sees Steve, he points a finger at Bruce, glaring, before he goes over.

 

Steve takes a seat on the futon, pulling his legs up under him, crossing them, as Tony drops down beside him.  “Hey,” he says, lifting one shoulder before he leans over and kisses him, “Feeling okay?”

 

“Yeah, I guess.  Can we talk later?” Steve asks, and, to his surprise, Tony nods earnestly.

 

“Whatever you need, Cap.  And hey, Bruce is a great listener.”

 

“Shut up, Tony,” Bruce says casually.

 

“You shut up, you _whore_ ,” Tony snaps, whipping around, “Just because—”

 

“Just because _my_ formula worked, and—”

 

“Oh, _your_ formula!” Tony exclaims, clambering to his feet and jumping back into the argument, which Bruce ropes Jarvis into, and Steve just laughs, shaking his head as he opens his pad and starts to sketch.

 

Drawing has always been a tool to calm his nerves.  Before he was _Captain America_ , and just the star-spangled man, he would always draw in his free time—at first, just to get over the stage fright, but later, to get over the anger at not being able to truly serve his country.  When they were planning missions to Red Skull’s different bases, he would sketch while they all talked at once, trying to have the last word.  Even before he was _Captain America_ , when he was just a kid from Brooklyn, he’d sketch in the principal’s office and while waiting for the guidance counselor, during math class and recess, and sometimes, it even warded off bullies.  After he woke up from the ice, it was the only thing that kept him sane.  He’s drawn most of Brooklyn now, both the old and the new, but he’s yet to sketch Tony, who will never sit still long enough.  Now, though, Steve watches him dart around, and he fills in everything else—the lab, a grinning Bruce, Jarvis’ holograms, the suits, and then he starts on Tony when he finally sits petulantly on the floor and starts taking something apart.

 

Steve spends his afternoon in the lab this way until Tony starts whining about being hungry and Bruce phones out for Indian, and then Steve convinces them to go sit up on the roof for dinner.  They have a grand time, the three of them, laughing and drinking and eating, just letting themselves unwind, until Tony’s actually yawning and stretching.

 

“It’s been four days, bedtime,” Bruce says as he collects some of the white containers and heads for the door.

 

“He makes me stay on a semi-normal sleeping routine so that my genius is sometimes equal to him,” Tony whispers conspiratorially, but Bruce hears and flips him off before he goes inside.

 

Steve smiles and leans over, kissing Tony slowly, softly, quietly.  Tony melts into it, sliding closer until he’s nearly on top of Steve, and then, when they break for air, Tony clambers into his lap, legs curling around him.  “Be quiet,” he says when Steve opens his mouth, and he uses the tactic _everyone_ uses with him and kisses Steve’s words away.

 

They kiss lazily on the roof as the night deepens until Steve is hard in his jeans, and Tony is grinning wickedly.  “Ever had sex outside?” Tony asks, pushing against Steve’s chest until he’s resting on his back.

 

“I haven’t,” Steve admits, and Tony’s grin just widens, cat-like, before he reaches for the hem of his shirt.

 

It’s sex that Steve hasn’t had with Tony before, a slow climb, Tony moving easily against him, perched on his knees, and Steve drinks in the sight of him, the curve of his torso, back bending inward as he rocks up and down, up and down, and Steve thinks he could be okay, right here.

 

Eventually, they make it downstairs, and Steve is feeling loose enough that he just slides under the blankets with Tony, who turns away from him initially because that’s how it always is with them, no touching, just presence.  It makes his chest ache, though, in a way that he’s only accustomed to with thoughts of Peggy, and he reaches for Tony, drawing him against him.  Tony looks up, trying to disguise his surprise.  “Just,” Steve says, his voice cracking a little, and Tony nods, settling, letting Steve wind his arms around him and hold him close.

 

In the morning, Steve wakes with the rising sun, blue eyes blinking open slowly, and Tony is still sleeping quietly next to him, warm and solid and kind of like an octopus, limbs all tangled around Steve’s, but it makes him smile and press closer, closing his eyes again as he breathes in the scent of him, holds it inside of him.  He never wants to let go of this, but he can already feel it rising back up, the angry void that’s slowly reshaping him.

 

He only gets a half hour more of rest before he feels too tight, too close, and he needs to get away, so he carefully extracts himself from under Tony, showers, and then goes downstairs after he’s changed into his gym clothes.  He works out until he gets a text from Tony, _where did you go_ , and then he does a few cool down stretches and heads back upstairs.

 

Tony’s mulling about in the kitchen, attempting to find food, so Steve kisses his shoulder and steers him over to the island before setting to making breakfast.  Tony chatters about nothing, or so it seems until Steve starts to understand the questions, and then he turns and says, “What are you doing?”

 

“You said you were feeling lost,” Tony says, shrugging, “I’m putting out my feelers to see what needs to be worked on.”

 

Steve holds his gaze for a few moments before shaking his head and smiling.  He speaks only when he’s finished and sat across from him.  “You’re better at this than you claim,” he says, and Tony makes an obnoxious noise.

 

“Don’t tell the general public, they’ll freak out, and suddenly all of the various men and women I’ve treated like shit all these years will suddenly come frolicking back, _oh Tony, oh Tony_ , and I’ll have to let them down all over again because _hey_ , Captain America.”

 

“Oh yeah, that’s your reasoning?”

 

“Have you looked in the mirror lately, Rogers?” Tony says, winking, and though it’s meant to make him feel better, it just makes Steve’s chest tight, and he looks down, not responding.

 

He’s not hungry anymore, just thinking about the lie that is his reflection, but he needs to prove he can be normal, and so he forces the food down, letting Tony pick his brain throughout breakfast.  After, Steve convinces Tony to go down and spar with him, which eventually leads to Tony calling Bruce down to make it a more even match, but they get distracted eventually talking about different stressors to test with Hulk, and so Steve wanders off to the weight room.

 

Tony evidently gets bored of that eventually because then Bruce is appearing between one lift and the next.  Steve flashes a quick half smile in greeting and lowers the bar back down toward his chest.  He does another set before replacing the bar and sitting up, stretching.  “Have you ever heard of exercise bulimia?” Bruce asks as he gets up, and Steve glances at him briefly before going over to the leg press, lifting weights over to it.

 

“Is there something you need?” Steve asks, and he doesn’t mean it to be hostile, but he doesn’t want to deal with this right now.

 

Bruce follows him, though he keeps his distance, sitting on the floor toward the middle of the room, facing the wall of mirrors, and folding his legs together.  “Just spotting, for now,” he says, and it takes more effort than Steve likes to admit not to snap back something nasty.

 

He works with the leg press until Bruce’s presence makes him want to scream, and he can’t keep up the slow pace anymore, so he abandons it for something to work his arms again.  When he passes by Bruce, he shifts, rolling his shoulders a little, and Steve tries not to order him out of the room when he turns his head and says, “I may be wrong in categorizing it as bulimia, though.  How is your nutritional intake?”

 

“Fine,” Steve says shortly, putting his back to Bruce.

 

“I don’t think so,” Bruce says, frowning, “Not from what I’ve heard.”

 

Steve almost, _almost_ , turns around, but he swallows down the building anger and pulls the ropes back toward his hips, and then, very quietly, “From what you’ve _heard_?”

 

“Not just Tony,” Bruce says, “Maybe exercise anorexia, then, if you’re not maintaining a proper diet for the amount of working out you’ve been doing.  Steve,” Bruce pauses, and Steve can hear him shift, bare feet padding across the floor.  He comes around until he can see Steve, who doesn’t meet his gaze.  “It’s not about burning off calories, though, is it?  It’s a coping mechanism against depression.”

 

“I thought you weren’t a psychiatrist,” Steve says, his jaw so tight that the words sound sharp.

 

“Various parties don’t seem to agree on the _specifics_ of my doctorate degree.  Tony’s not the only one with issues, nor the only one subliminally asking for help.  Did you know that I see Natasha on a regular basis?”  Steve finally shifts his gaze, surprised, and Bruce nods, allowing a small smile.  “Sometimes, we go out for tea, sometimes just to walk the beach, and sometimes she just comes here.  She knows she’s asking for help, but she won’t admit it, and I’m not going to suggest her to someone else with lesser intelligence in her background and current psychological state.”  Bruce sighs, folding his arms over his chest as Steve finishes his set and releases the ropes.  “I’m telling you this because I care, Steve.  Please don’t shut us out,” he says quietly, but it’s not Bruce’s voice Steve hears, but Bucky’s, _please don’t shut me out, man, I know it sucks, but I can help_ , right before he’d left him, _again_.

 

“Oh,” Bruce makes a soft noise, taking a step back at the sudden flare of unbridled fury that crosses Steve’s face.  He unfolds his arms, lifting a hand, but Steve steps forward.  “We are a team, and—” he breaks off when Steve steps forward again, and Bruce looks away, eyes slipping shut.

 

“You think—” Steve begins, but it falls short when Bruce looks back, eyes bright green.

 

“Steve,” he says, his voice hard, “Please.”

 

“You’re not always angry,” Steve says, letting the bite back into his tone, “Anger is a secondary emotion.  You are _afraid_.”  Steve doesn’t wait for the word to settle before he leaves, exiting the weight room and making his way toward the track.

 

Bruce lets his breath go only when Steve is gone, and then he says, “Jarvis, call Betty Ross.”

 

Steve runs five laps before he realizes he can’t remember the conversation he just had with Bruce.

 

——

 

That night, after Bruce denies joining them for dinner and instead spends it on the phone with Betty, Tony curls up in bed with one of his tablets, tilting his head up for a kiss when Steve joins him with his sketchpad.  “TV?” Tony asks, looking back toward his work.

 

“Mm,” Steve hums, getting comfortable, “Something on Safari animals.  I’ve been thinking about lions lately.”

 

“You heard the man, Jay,” Tony says, and Jarvis brings the television to life, displaying a Discovery Channel special on lions.

 

They’re quiet for a while, Tony working and Steve drawing, until Steve puts the pad away, asks Jarvis to switch it to something quiet about birds because he loves the idea of free flight, and then plucks Tony’s tablet out of his hands.  They move together softly, and Steve thinks he could get used to this gentle sex that Tony seems to respond the best to.

 

Afterward, when they’re lying together, Steve perched on a few pillows and Tony resting against his chest, eyes half closed, Steve presses a kiss to Tony’s messy hair and asks, “Is everything okay with Bruce?”

 

“I dunno,” Tony mumbles tiredly, “He usually talks to Betty when he’s having a problem with me.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“They’ve been doing this—I dunno, trial period thing since New York.  She saw some footage of the fight, called him up, and they’ve been making kind of a date thing out of it, talking here and there, though they ring when something’s going on, something they can’t figure out.  Usually, it’s whenever our therapy sessions get a little juicy.”

 

“Have you done anything particularly arrogant lately?”

 

“Arrogant,” Tony snorts, “Yeah, okay.”  He stretches before pushing against Steve’s chest so he can roll off him and get out of bed.  “It’s probably your fault,” he says, and though Steve knows he means it in jest, he can’t help but think of that missing conversation from earlier, the one he can’t quite recall, though he can see Bruce’s green eyes clearly, and that makes him worry.  “Hey,” Tony snaps him from his reverie with a smack on the chest, “Are you coming or not?”

 

He goes off into the bathroom, and Steve watches him go, frowning, until he hears the water run, and then he follows, trying to banish Bruce’s green eyes and what that could mean from his mind.

 

——

 

This thing they’re doing starts to work.

 

Steve cooks breakfast every morning, discovering that the kitchen is another safe zone, somewhere he can work off the tightness in his chest that threatens to choke him, and though he rarely sleeps, he likes the feeling of routine.  Tony slowly comes off the sleep cycle Bruce has been working to get him on, though he’s not quite the insomniac Steve is, and he’s discovered the only real way to get Steve into bed with him is to lure him there and tire him out so that he’ll stay.  Steve draws the lab until there’s not a corner of it he doesn’t recognize, and then Tony slowly starts learning him on how to _use_ the variety of things in the lab until Steve feels like he can understand this world a little better.  Steve starts skipping lunch so he doesn’t have to leave the gym, Tony starts drinking more to accommodate the shift that Steve’s presence creates, and Bruce stays as far from Steve as he can manage, trying to pull Tony with him with each step, and that’s how it starts to unravel.

 

Steve starts letting him, not noticing the sorrow that ages Bruce, that makes him cling to the last shreds of Tony that he still recognizes.  He doesn’t resist when Bruce pulls, he stops asking Tony to spar with him, he stops going into the lab, and then, nearly two months since he unofficially moved in, he stops cooking breakfast.  And then, he starts noticing.

 

The liquor cabinet is empty the next time he opens it, all of the coffee has been replaced with tea again, and Tony and Bruce start appearing in the padded room in the gym for yoga and meditation.  Steve ignores it until Tony stops trying to get him to come to bed, and then he waits, biding his time until Tony is busy upstairs on a phone call with Pepper before he goes into the lab.  “What are you doing?” Steve demands.

 

Bruce looks up from his work, frowning.  He shakes his head, looking back down, and Steve’s jaw tightens before he storms across the lab only to come to a shattering halt a few yards away from Bruce, electricity shooting up through him.  “You won’t be able to get much closer,” Bruce warns, and Steve doesn’t try.  Instead, he stands there, glowering, until Bruce gives him his attention and says, “Do you know how hard I worked to heal him?”  He looks exhausted when he meets Steve’s gaze, and it breaks him a little, loosens his fists.  Bruce shakes his head, looking away, and that’s when Steve notices how his hands shake.  “He is the only friend I have in this world, Steve, and you are _breaking_ him.  He was so lost when I moved into the Tower, and I—I can’t even count the amount of times I found him stumbling toward death.”  He looks back over, teeth clenched in an effort not to let the tears glassing his eyes spill over.  “He was so close to being healthy again, to sleeping and eating and not drinking as much, and then you—you moved in, and you _ruined_ him.  I will not lose him.  I will not let you hurt him.  You—you need to leave.  You can’t see him anymore.”

 

Steve tries to respond, but every angry retort falls short, and so he bows his head and tries to block it all out.  “You’ll end up killing him if you don’t.  Please, for Tony’s sake, just leave.  I’ll pick up the pieces.”

 

Steve lingers a minute longer before he says, “Tell him—”

 

“No,” Bruce cuts him off, “Your words are poison.  Get out.”

 

Steve turns away just as Tony’s coming back into the lab.  “Hey, haven’t seen you in here in a while,” he says, coming over, but Steve just walks past him, not pausing at Tony’s unsure, “Steve?”

 

He leaves, and that night, he drinks until it hurts.

 

——

 

When Steve wakes in the morning, he actually has a small headache.  He tries to stretch, but he forgets he’s still holding a bottle, and it clatters to the floor with a loud thunk.  Steve groans, turning over and pressing his face into his pillow.  Somewhere, his phone is ringing, which he thinks is what woke him.

 

He finally gets up when it stops ringing and then starts again, and he finds it just before it stops ringing again.  “Hello?” he croaks, squinting against the sunlight coming into the room.

 

“What the fuck?  You just—you just fucking _left_ again?  I can’t even fucking _fathom_ what made you think that might be okay, what— _fuck_!  Fuck _you_!”

 

“Tony—”

 

“No, don’t fucking _Tony_ me, everyone always fucking _Tony_ ’s me.  This is such bullshit, you loser asslamp, stupid fucking piece of _shit_ , I can’t even believe you think this is okay, and—”

 

“Tony—”

 

“STOP FUCKING TONYING ME!” he roars, and then Steve hears something that sounds suspiciously like glass shatter, “Fucking hell, you shithole, that _hurt_!”

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“No, you just fucking came in here without fucking asking permission, and I wasn’t ready for this, I didn’t want to fall in love with you, I never said it was okay, but you’re too fucking broken, and I get that, okay, because _I’m_ fucking broken, in little fucking pieces scattered everywhere!  Guess what, my dad beat _the shit_ out of me when I was little, had to wear long sleeves in the fucking summer because he couldn’t stop drinking long enough to be careful about where the bruises were!  My mom didn’t give a fuck, was too busy trying to hide herself, and I don’t blame her, but then you—you—you _cunt_ , you _douchebag_ , you came into my fucking life, and I never said you could just fucking come and go as you please!  That is _my_ fucked up tactic, _I_ am the messed up one, _I’m_ the one with the drinking problem and the self-harm and the insomnia and the whatever the hell else the long, useless line of psychiatrists feel like diagnosing me with next!  You are Captain fucking America, and you _left me_!”

 

“Tony—”

 

“Fuck— _you_.”

 

Tony hangs up, and Steve stares at his phone in disbelief, jumping when it starts ringing.  He answers it cautiously, “Tony?”

 

“I may have cut open my hand,” Tony says, his voice empty, “Can you please come over and help me stitch it back up?  Bruce left.”

 

“I’m on my way,” Steve says before he’s cleaning up and heading out.

 

They start doing this thing.  Tony calls Steve when Bruce is out, and Steve goes over to the Tower until it starts getting hazardous when Bruce comes back unexpectedly, so Tony starts going over Steve’s.  It stops being gentle the moment they leave the Tower, and they usually spend nights at the apartment with Steve desperately trying to get drunk while Tony takes things apart and makes them _better_ , and then having angry, violent sex.

 

Steve stops sleeping until his body starts to give up, until he’s shaking and vomiting on the floor, and he usually passes out from sheer exhaustion and pain.  Some days, he can barely get out of bed, but usually he forces himself up and ready so he can go to the gym, but then, with the combined lack of sleep and alcohol intake, Steve stops trying.  He reaches a constant state of inebriated he thought he could never achieve, but then he reads somewhere that insomnia slows down your metabolism, and he stops eating unless he needs to.

 

Three months into their secretive relationship, Steve tells Tony he’s feeling under the weather for two weeks, and it’s not until Tony starts to worry that he starts to clean up a little, and that’s how he ends up standing before Howard Stark’s grave with a bottle of Jack in his hand.

 

“What happened to you?” he says, trying desperately not to cry and failing.  He lets out this little, broken laugh and takes a long pull on the bottle.  “What happened to me?” he murmurs, and that’s how he ends up pouring whiskey over Howard’s grave and stumbling back to his apartment.

 

Tony’s there when he gets back, and he takes one look at Steve and shakes his head, taking his hand and leading him inside.  Once upstairs, he herds Steve toward the bathroom, helps him undress, and then gets him into the shower.

 

He cleans up, though it’s against _all_ of his morals, straightening the bed and then frowning at the state of the sheets.  With a sigh, he finds Steve’s hamper and just dumps everything in, stripping the bed and adding it to the pile.  He goes on a booze hunt, finding it all and dumping it down the drain—he’s trying so hard to be sober for Bruce, but being with Steve makes it incredibly difficult—and then tossing the various bottles in the recycling.  Tony even tidies up the rest of the apartment until it resembles something like a home, and then he opens all the windows and drops down onto the sofa, sighing.

 

Steve starts to take too long in the shower, so Tony goes to check on him, leaning against the doorway and closing his eyes.  “Steve,” he says softly.

 

“I can’t,” Steve mumbles, and Tony wants so badly to strip down and go in to help him, but he needs to make him do this on his own.

 

“Yes, you can.  If _I_ can get up and shower every day, then you damn well can, and I even shower on days when I hate myself,” Tony frowns, and then laughs humorlessly to himself, “So most days.  Let’s go, wash up and get out.”

 

Steve eventually gets out of the shower, and Tony waits for him to dry off before tugging him back into the bedroom, where he gives him a little shove toward the bed and then goes to hunt down a blanket.  Steve is half asleep by the time he returns, and he curls up with him, pulling the blanket up over their shoulders.  He kisses Steve softly and then takes one of his hands, kissing his fingers.  “Enough,” he whispers, “Sleep now.”

 

Steve goes to sleep because Tony stays.

 

——

 

In the morning, they sleep late, but Tony still gets up before Steve.  He goes out to do the washing and shopping, and, when he returns, Steve is still out cold.  He changes the clothes to the dryer and starts making breakfast.  When it’s on the table, he goes to wake Steve, smiling softly when Steve blinks at him.  “Good morning,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss him, “I know you’re tired, but you’ve got to get back on a normal sleep cycle instead of just catching up.  Or, at least, that’s what Bruce keeps telling me.  Come on, breakfast is ready.”

 

Steve nods, yawning wide enough that his jaw cracks, and he gets out of bed slowly, though he pauses at the edge, too dizzy to stand.  Tony sits with him, holding his hand, and eventually, the spell passes, and he can get up.  He finds a pair of pants to pull on, and then goes into the kitchen to eat with Tony.  They spend the day lounging around, watching shit movies and snuggling.

 

Tony stays over for a week, slowly nursing Steve back to health until, when they wake the seventh morning, Tony stretches and says, “I have to go today.  Bruce is coming back.”

 

“Where was he?”

 

“Went to New Mexico to see Betty.  I think they’re going to try again.”

 

Steve nods, holding his gaze for a few moments before rolling out of bed and going to shower.  They prolong their morning, showering together and then bickering over breakfast until Tony’s lingering by the apartment door, letting Steve kiss him slow and easy.  When they finally part, Tony sighs and leans into Steve, forehead pressed against his chest.  “I hate that I love you,” he whispers, and Steve’s grip tightens a little, arms bracketed around Tony, but he slips out anyway, leaving before Steve can respond.

 

It’s not meant to be his undoing, but it is.

 

Steve paces his apartment for fifteen minutes before he can’t stand the silence anymore, and he changes before going outside and down the street to the public gym.  He hasn’t been in a few weeks, and he feels taut and itching with fury by the time he gets inside and shoves his things in a locker.

 

“Lock up when you’re done, Rogers,” he hears hours later, and he looks up as a key is tossed through the air toward him.  He catches it, and the night trainer leaves, waving.

 

He spends all night trying to run from what’s coming, but, in the end, it hits him like a sucker punch, and he’s still gasping for breath when it all settles.

 

Steve goes back to his apartment just before dawn, after locking up the gym, and he paces back and forth across the living room until the sun rises, and then he finds his phone and calls Sharon because he hasn’t seen her in a while, and he misses Peggy so much, it’s a weight in his stomach.  They set up lunch, and so Steve naps for a few hours, goes back to the gym until eleven, and then showers before heading out to meet Sharon at a small restaurant nearby.  It’s so easy to pretend she’s Peggy, and he ends up having a lovely enough time with her that they go out for a walk around Brooklyn, and Steve tells her stories from his childhood.  Before he realizes it, he’s telling her about all the different places he got beat up, and Sharon’s frowning because it’s starting to dawn on her why he called her.

 

“I’m not her,” she says softly even as she reaches for Steve’s hand, holding it between both of hers, “I can’t be.”

 

“I know,” Steve says, looking down at her, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Why don’t we go back to my place?”  Before letting him respond, Sharon smiles and leans up onto her toes, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before leading him away.

 

He doesn’t mean for it to happen.  And yet, he has every intention of falling into bed with Sharon, closing his eyes, and pretending she’s Peggy.  When they do, though, it’s nothing like he would have ever done to Peggy, and it terrifies him as much as it feels exhilarating until he thinks of Tony, and then he just wants it to be over.

 

Afterward, with Sharon lying beneath the blankets, Steve dresses quickly and starts to leave when Sharon asks, “Are you still with Tony?”

 

Steve pauses, and then says, over his shoulder, “Yes.”

 

Sharon nods, sitting up and pulling the blankets with her to cover herself.  She smiles sadly and waits for Steve to turn before she says, “I hope you don’t hurt him like you just did me.”

 

“What?” Steve says, frowning.

 

“Not everyone is strong enough to endure you, Steve.”

 

Steve barely lets her finish before he’s trying to get as far from her as possible.

 

He doesn’t mean to end up at the Tower.

 

Bruce is just getting out of a cab when he arrives, and Steve can see the terror that floods through him as he sees Steve.  “I’m sorry,” he says before he runs inside.  As soon as he’s in the elevator, he says, “Jarvis, where’s Tony?”

 

“The lab, sir.  Is everything alright?”

 

“No,” Steve says, but Jarvis knows better than to respond.

 

He sprints down the hallway and bursts into the lab, looking around frantically until he sees Tony working, and he jogs over to him.  He can feel it all rising up in him and threatening to spill over as Tony looks up and frowns.  It wells up in him, and all he can see is Tony’s soft smile in the morning sunlight.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he says as he approaches him.  Tony stands, looking worried, and he emits a small, surprised noise when Steve crushes Tony against him, holding him tightly.  “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and Tony deflates a little.  Steve pulls back, shaking his head, “Tony—”

 

“Don’t Tony me,” Tony sighs, looking away, “Just—don’t.  I don’t want to hear it.”

 

“Tony, I—”

 

“No,” Tony says, gaze snapping back over at him, “I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t want to hear it.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“ _Stop_!”

 

“I slept with Sharon!”

 

“I _know_!” Tony screams, and then he’s on top of him, shoving him back angrily.  He throws a fist into Steve’s chest, who staggers back a step, and then he sees red.

 

Tony holds his own for longer than Steve expects, but things start to blur together, and he doesn’t know if he’s fighting Tony or his father until he lands a punch against his jaw, and Tony crashes to the floor, and it erupts from him before Steve can stop it, “You weren’t there when I needed you!”

 

“What?” Tony gasps from the floor.

 

“You never found me, I was trapped there, and I needed you, and instead you were—you were—why did you do this to your son?”

 

Tony _stares_ at him.

 

The door slams open, admitting Bruce.

 

Steve looks over, and his vision clears.  “No,” he says softly, trying to take a step back, but he’s shaking so much he nearly falls.  “Tony.”

 

“Oh, good,” Tony says, carefully picking himself up, “You know who I am.”

 

“I—I—”

 

“I’m sorry I did this to you,” Tony says, shaking his head and starting to step forward when Steve holds up a hand.

 

“I need to leave.”  Bruce stops halfway to them, frowning, and Tony starts saying no, over and over again, even as Steve nods and says, “I need to leave.  I can’t—I can’t be here anymore, I can’t be in Brooklyn, I can’t be near you, I can’t—I—I need to _leave_.”

 

“Steve—”

 

“I’m sorry I fell in love with you,” Steve says, and then he’s gone.

 

——

 

Steve leaves New York two days later on a one-way flight to New Zealand.  He spends a week sleeping outside before he finds a flat for a reasonable price, and he moves in with nothing but his backpack.  The first time he goes out to do the shopping, he thinks of Tony when he starts to go down the liquor aisle, and it gives him the courage to walk away.

 

For the first two weeks in his flat, Steve goes to the gym every day until he just _doesn’t_ the beginning of the third week and instead walks the three miles to the beach, finds a shop along the pier that sells surfboards, and focuses on learning that instead.  He sets up a routine that allows him three gym days a week, and he convinces one of the regular trainers to kick him out when he’s been there too long.

 

Slowly, he starts to heal.

 

——

 

Four months since he left, an army of Skrulls descends upon Manhattan, and, as they’re all gearing up in the Tower, Thor looks around, frowning.  “Where is Steve?” he asks.

 

Tony doesn’t respond at first, and he doesn’t know if he can come up with a good enough excuse this time.  He’s managed to think of one every time they go out for dinner, but this time, it hurts too much.  Bruce opens his mouth, but Tony shakes his head.  “He’s uh,” he breaks off, not meeting their curious gazes.  He thinks of the postcard he received last month, a photograph of a beautiful beach on the front and Steve’s crooked handwriting on the back, _thank you_ , and then, almost like an afterthought, _I’m okay_.

He takes a deep breath and says, “Cap’s gonna sit this one out.  He’ll be back when he’s ready.”

 

And they move on.

 

_Cos I might not say it back._

**Author's Note:**

> Well, shit.
> 
> I really hadn’t meant to finish this that quickly. I think I started this three days ago? Yeah—wow, okay. I always end up doing this with Marvel, I can’t do it slowly, it just all happens at once. I keep saying this fic was Erin’s fault, but it’s really not—it is definitely, one hundred percent mine. Captain America has been my favorite superhero since I was a wee one, back when my dad used to read me comics and let me play with his action figures. I’ve always loved him, and the day they announced they were doing a movie—with _Chris Evans_ , my god—I almost fell over. I’ve always written Steve as well-adjusted, as okay, but he’s not—at least, he shouldn’t be—and so this was my attempt to shine a light on a side of Steve that I think a lot of us in the fandom ignore, but it’s there, it’s definitely there, and good grief, I’m never writing Steve angst again, this hurt my soul so much. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed, and hopefully I’ll be writing something happier for my lovely little Cap in the future. Don’t forget to leave your thoughts!


End file.
